Partners
by Helga
Summary: My controversial take on Helga and Rourke's history, which will ultimately extend through the film. Rated PG-13 for language, violence, and implied sexuality in later chapters.
1. Chapter I

((Note: The dates and places for this work are based on the profiles given in "The Journal of Milo Thatch," copyright 2001, Disney Enterprises, Inc. Certain historical inaccuracies do exist, due primarily to errors in the Journal, [i.e. Aberdeen] but all attempts have been made to make the work accurate whenever possible. "Atlantis: The Lost Empire," its characters, and the motion picture's original storyline are all copyright of Disney, and the author makes no claim of ownership to them, or rights to their usage. This work, however, is original and is not to be reproduced, reprinted, or transmitted in any form without written consent from the author. Please direct all requests or questions to helga@planet- save.com.))  
  
  
  
Aberdeen Proving Ground  
  
Aberdeen, MD, 1901  
  
At the back of the lecture hall, a blonde girl stood impatiently near the door, her arms folded as she watched the men chatter like housewives. The visiting former-captain's dissertation on small-scale ballistics had been interesting, yes-- she might almost even say moving-- but the wagging of mouths that inevitably followed cheapened the deal considerably. They spoke of useful things at times, to be sure, as they were men of the Service, but so much time was needlessly wasted on such frivolities as what the boys were eating back in Missouri. She was a tolerant young woman, but was growing impatient, nonetheless.  
  
A gesture near the front of the hall caught her attention. Her father, U.S. Army Major Alexander Sinclair, who had uncharacteristically hurried like a child up to talk to the speaker as soon as the lecture was over, was now silently summoning her forth. Drawing in a deep breath, and straightening her shoulders, his daughter silently made her way through the throng of uniformed figures. The Major smiled with a father's pride as she approached them, her expression unreadable. She offered a polite, level smile to the man her father spoke to, a massive, square-shouldered figure with slightly greying hair and a strong jaw. "Sir."  
  
"Captain Rourke, allow me to introduce you to Helga Sinclair, my daughter." He was beaming. "Helga, Captain Rourke, visiting from Fort Dix in New Jersey."  
  
"It's a pleasure," she murmured, as the man's enormous hand engulfed her slender one and half of her forearm in a firm, warm shake.  
  
"And quite the pleasure to meet you, as well," he agreed in a deep, amicable voice, releasing her hand. "I've heard some great things about you, Ms. Sinclair."  
  
Had he? The seventeen-year-old girl's brow arched ever so slightly. What kinds of things had her father told this man? "As I have of you," she commented carefully, though she meant what she said. The valor of Captain Rourke was almost as widely known as was his expertise in combat and firearms. A former Rough Rider, he had retired only earlier that year, and his presence was still as intimidating as it must have been back at Wounded Knee. Helga made it her business to look into the histories of men she was forced to hear speak, and was thus quite well-versed on the man standing before her.  
  
"You're going to be studying under the Captain at Fort Dix," her father informed her, in what would surely have been a ploy to catch her off guard had he been anyone else.  
  
It took all of her training to keep her expression unchanged. "Am I?" she asked, narrow blue eyes glancing towards her father. Helga had hoped to go back to Camp Zama in Japan-- or perhaps even Kyoto-- to continue her martial arts training; a fort in New Jersey was quite possibly the last place she would ever have chosen to live.  
  
"Captain Rourke has graciously offered to train you personally, given your experience," her father affirmed, obviously proud of her for her talent, and of himself for his negotiating.  
  
A Captain as a personal trainer? And a Captain with a record like Rourke's? Her father must have pulled some heavy strings for that one. "I would be honored," she agreed, knowing all too well that she had no choice. On the other hand, the opportunity to study personally under a man like this was very rare, and she was aware that she was quite lucky to have the chance. And it was also true that her firearms proficiency was rather lacking, though she had been winning target-shooting competitions since she was twelve. Perhaps he could actually teach her something. It wasn't what she had wanted to be taught, but...  
  
"We'll be leaving Friday night," Rourke explained, his expression and voice surprisingly gentle as he looked at her. Whether that was due to his nature, her age, her bloodline, or her beauty, she couldn't be sure. "You'll be accompanying me on the train back, if you don't mind, ma'am."  
  
If she didn't mind? Since when the hell had she had a say in this? And why on earth was she traveling *with* this man?  
  
As if sensing her unspoken question, her father spoke up. "The Captain and I were in agreement that it might not be safe for you to travel alone," he explained, "and he mentioned that it would be logical for you to simply travel with him."  
  
Well, there was no safer man in the world to travel with, that was true. At 6'2, Rourke was a towering bundle of muscle and bone that one would think twice before crossing. It was a little insulting to think that the men had deemed her unfit to travel on her own, but, if she had to have a companion, Helga herself could not have chosen a better one. It might be interesting, too, to talk to this man, and a trip would certainly provide enough opportunities for that.  
  
"That sounds wonderful," she assented, conjuring up a more convincing smile.  
  
"I think you'll like Fort Dix," Rourke assured her, with a comforting smile. "There's a lot of opportunity waiting for a young lady with your potential, Miss Sinclair."  
  
"I'm looking foward to it, sir," she lied, knowing that she was convincing enough to get away with it.  
  
"Well, we'll let you get back to your fans," her father said cheerfully, his lingering Scottish accent making the words seem to half-dance from his lips. "It was good to speak with you, Captain."  
  
"A real pleasure," Helga agreed, her eyes curious as she watched Rourke's facial muscles work beneath his weather-worn skin. He was beautiful, in his own way, and she would enjoy studying under him. Not as much as she would have enjoyed Kyoto, but...  
  
"The pleasure's all mine," he countered, his eyes meeting hers as he shook her hand again. It was an utterly unnecessary move, but the blonde didn't stop him. His brown eyes looked almost soft-- rare for a man with a reputation like Rourke's. The ice in her dark blue ones melted a bit under his gaze, though she couldn't help but resent him for his hand in dragging her to Jersey. His eyes were beautiful... "I'll see you on Friday, Miss Sinclair." Their hands separated, and a part of her that she couldn't identify almost missed the warmth. Rourke dipped his head ever so slightly, then turned to entertain questions from other officers.  
  
When they were in the safe silence of the hallway, Helga turned to her father, her eyes flashing beneath lowered brows as full lips curled back to reveal unusually straight teeth. "Why the hell didn't you tell me?" she demanded, menacing despite her age.  
  
"Tell you what?" His face wore the impassive, half-bored expression that was the trademark of the Sinclair family, despite his cheery mood.  
  
"That you were shipping me out to *Jersey,* Daddy!"  
  
"I didn't tell you because I didn't know."  
  
The fire in her eyes flared up, and her lips curled back a bit more. "You didn't *know?* How could you *not know?*"  
  
"I had no idea what the Captain was going to say about--"  
  
"You could have consulted me before you asked him!" she spat, livid with rage. Though her father was her superior in many ways, and her original trainer, Helga had no fear of getting in his face when he crossed the line with her. She had inherited his spirit and strong will, and the two shared enough respect for one another that she knew she would be taken seriously.  
  
"That's just it, Helga," Major Sinclair explained. "I *didn't* ask him. He asked *me.* I requested that he train you in firearms and unarmed combat, specifically-- but taking you on in the first place was his idea."  
  
"*What?*" Her voice was incredulous, and the challenge faded from her expression as surprise took its place.  
  
"I went up to talk to him about the caliber of that last firearm he mentioned. When he found out who I was, he started talking about you."  
  
The girl's eyes narrowed considerably. "I wasn't aware he knew of me, aside from what I assumed you'd told him."  
  
"Well, that's the funny thing," her father continued. "I didn't know, either. But apparently your expertise has him quite impressed; you're the talk of the town in Fort Dix."  
  
"You're toying with me."  
  
His steel-grey eyes looked levelly at his daughter. "You know I wouldn't do that to you."  
  
She took a deep breath. "So he just said, 'Hey, nice daughter, Major. Think I'll take her back with me,' and you said, 'Fine, fine, take the wench?" The information was beginning to sink in, and it made Helga uncomfortable in ways she couldn't exactly explain. In desperation, she pulled the Mother card. "What the hell is Mutti going to say about this?"  
  
"It wasn't like that, my dear, and you know it." His eyes were deadly serious now. "And you know your mother and I are both in agreement that we want whatever is best for you."  
  
"And how do you know that this is what's best for me, Daddy?"  
  
"Because you've gone beyond what I can teach you, Helga, and there's no one better qualified to teach you in firearms and combat than Captain Rourke. It's a miracle he even offered to take you, you know."  
  
"I know," she muttered, brushing a wisp of hair out of her eyes as she thought. "And I don't have a choice, Daddy.. I know that. But... dammit, I wish I'd been consulted first."  
  
"I wish that had been possible," he agreed, gazing fondly at his daughter. "But you and I both understand the circumstances now, don't we?"  
  
"We do," she agreed glumly. "So.. Friday."  
  
"And not a moment sooner," he said, reaching out and smoothing her hair with a tenderness the two rarely shared.  
  
Squaring her shoulders, Helga followed her father back to their family's quarters on the outskirts of the base, slowly coming to grips with what had just happened.  
  
  
  
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Friday dawned dark and menacing, with a crisp New England wind that smelt of salt and chilled her skin through the weave of her sweater. From a rock above the waterfront, Helga watched the Chesapeake Bay lap with unusual ferocity at its shoreline, its waters throwing themselves at the rocks as if to protest the land's intrusion into their world. The sharp wind worked strands of blonde hair from the girl's braid and sent them promptly across her face, partially obscuring her vision but earning no outward response from her. Icy blue eyes stared blankly out over the Bay, oblivious to the military boats that lapped their way through the waters several hundred yards out. Thick clouds churned at the horizon, with a gray-black ink slowly leaking out from them to taint the sky, and the promise of rain hung heavy in the air.  
  
This all rolled smoothly past Helga, who neither knew nor cared about the weather. Her bag was packed, her goodbyes to her family had been said, and now she had simply to wait and watch until dusk. She could perhaps have wasted her last few hours offering lukewarm wishes to the people she'd spent the last four years of her life with, promising that she'd write to old school friends or send pictures to the handful of soldiers who had attempted to court her. But she had no intentions of keeping in contact with any of the people from Aberdeen, save those who could perhaps prove useful at a later date. Officers were memorable, as were instructors or classmates who had shown notable potential. The families of these people, however, were not, and promises to them would be both immoral and a waste of breath. It was far better to spend these last hours in silent contemplation by the Bay, where she had spent a good portion of her spare time during her stay at Aberdeen. The area could be crowded, yes, but with nearly 150 miles of shoreline in the Proving Ground's sprawl, there was usually a quiet place or two for those who were willing to look.  
  
She drew her knees up to her chin and wrapped her arms about her shins, the sound of the water more than compensating for the chill of the wind. She would miss the Bay. Helga knew very little of Fort Dix, save that it was in New Jersey and was the current home of Captain Rourke. Her experiences in Japan, Korea, Italy, and even in her homeland of Germany had convinced her that one military base was generally quite similar to the next in terms of layout and protocol, but location had a tremendous impact on attitude and purpose. She had enjoyed Aberdeen's emphasis on research, if not the slightly stuffy New England mind-set, and was a little uneasy about transferring. What would she find in New Jersey? And what, exactly, was she to be trained for? What did Rourke want with a girl who could fight? Being a woman, she wasn't allowed to officially join the forces, though she was more than qualified, and for Rourke to spend time training her was illogical. Yes, she could fight as well as most men, but how much use could he really plan on getting out of her? It didn't make sense.  
  
The sky grew darker as the sun, hidden though it was, slipped beneath the horizon. With an inaudible sigh, Helga slowly stood, her heavily-booted feet coming down firmly to rest on the coarse sand as she flung a worn, olive-green duffel bag over one shoulder. She cast one last look out at the Bay, where the water still churned in the growing darkness, then turned her back to it for the last time and made her way back to the main portion of the Proving Ground.  
  
He was waiting for her on the porch of the train station, such as it was, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the light from a lamp that hung precariously from the wooden roofing. He turned to partially face her as she approached, the dim light from the lamp highlighting the silver in his hair and glinting in the upper corners of his eyes.  
  
"Miss Sinclair… It's good to see you." The words were uttered in a low but passive tone, as if he murmured them merely out of courtesy as his eyes subtly admired her. She was tall and in remarkable shape, with angular, wide-set eyes that glimmered from beneath perfectly arched brows, and she knew all too well that the clingy black sweater she so casually wore was quite flattering on her. True, the wind had mussed her hair, but it was still healthy and a wonderful blonde, and her full lips, which were painted with the same shade of red lipstick that she'd fallen in love with as a child in Japan, seemed to somehow make her hair look intentional. There was a confident, almost catlike quality to her walk as she stepped up onto the station's porch, khaki boots echoing on the wood with every step, and her charms were not lost on the man who waited for her.  
  
"Captain, why are we traveling at night?" She didn't bother with any greetings, choosing instead to simply readjust her duffel bag and look levelly up at him.  
  
A slow smile spread itself across his features, gleaming white teeth flashing in the light. She didn't waste his time, this one... What a pleasant change. "We're traveling at night, Miss Sinclair, because it was the most convenient time to arrange a private train."  
  
Her eyes narrowed, the blue seeming to grow slightly darker. "A private train?"  
  
"The night trains carry supplies, primarily," he explained. "There was one leaving this evening that was configured to include a passenger car. How lucky for us, don't you think?"  
  
"I'm sure," she murmured, not trusting him in the slightest. The weight of her pistol in its holster on her hip suddenly felt remarkably comforting. He wouldn't try anything, of course, but her instincts warned her against taking a private train with any man-- let alone with one as powerful as Rourke.  
  
His smile broadened as he opened the station door for her. Eyeing him warily, Helga shifted her duffel one last time, and stepped inside. At a barred window, a weary clerk looked up from a stack of schedules as they entered, his narrow glasses perched on the tip of a rather bird-like nose. "You ready, Captain?" he asked, straightening his posture and setting down his pen.  
  
"Take us out," Rourke affirmed, his voice proving him to be a man who was used to giving orders.  
  
The clerk nodded quickly, and scurried around to their side of the ticket window. "Your, um, luggage has been stored, sir," he offered, leading Rourke and Miss Sinclair to the back of the station. A large doorway led onto a loading platform, where a weather-worn but still impressive train waited for them on the tracks. There were a variety of cars loaded down with various goods from throughout Maryland, as well as several sealed boxcars that were obviously for army supplies. Behind the massive engine was tucked a luxurious, if rather small, passenger car, whose green paint gleamed eerily in the half-light from the station. Lights shone from inside the car, offering hints of what was inside and providing the interior with a reassuring warmth that somehow helped to counteract Helga's doubts about the trip. The clerk opened the door to the car for them, timidly taking the blonde woman's gloved hand as he unnecessesarily helped her inside. Glancing back down to the platform, Helga noticed Rourke murmering something to him, the words inaudible even to her. Her escort slipped currency of some sort into the timid man's hand, then climbed the stairs into the car as the clerk immediately vanished back into the safety of the station.  
  
Once inside, Helga could see that the car was indeed beautiful, with ornate woodwork and soft burgundy benches. The wooden floor, while worn, had been cleaned and buffed with remarkable care, and Helga took a slight pleasure in the scuff mark her boot had left in its wake. A movement behind her caught her attention, and a small jerk of her head brought her face-to-face with Captain Rourke. "May I take your bag, Miss Sinclair?" he asked quietly, an amused smile toying with the corners of his lips.  
  
Warily, she lifted it from her shoulder and offered it to him. His hand brushed hers as he took it from her, and the warmth of him worked its way even through her leather gloves. He turned from her, and tucked the bag in a cabinet neatly hidden behind panelling, her hand apparently having not had the same effect on him that his had had on her. With a contented sigh, Rourke then sat down on a bench, his back sinking into the overstuffed plush of it. "You may as well sit down, Sinclair," he suggested, dark eyes glancing up at the young woman who still stood uncomfortably in the middle of the car. "It's a long ride."  
  
Silently, she sat down a few feet from him, her senses on edge to alert her to any threatening actions he might make. She still didn't trust this man... Mentally, she reviewed the weapons she had on her. A small gun at her hip.. A throwing knife tucked smoothly into the top of her boot... Not much, really, but she could make it do if need be.  
  
"You seem tense," Rourke commented easily, resting his hands behind his head and making himself a bit more comfortable.  
  
"I'm fine, sir."  
  
"You know, Sinclair, I don't care for women who play games with me."  
  
She drew back slightly, the corner of her upper lip curling up a bit in surprise. "Excuse me?"  
  
"Don't tell me you're fine if you're not," he said, suddenly leaning forward and propping his elbows up on his knees as he regarded her with serious eyes. "I can tell that you're tense, and I want to know if there's a problem of some sort that I should be aware of."  
  
"I don't like the idea of a private train," she said evenly, though she was unsure of how to react to such bluntness. "I don't know why you're bothering to train me, and I don't see what's in this for you. And that, Captain, makes me tense, as you put it." She crossed her legs and glanced out a window. Perhaps telling her parents not to come down to bid her farewell had been a bad idea...  
  
"You've got potential. I'd like to see that developed." Rourke was visibly pleased that she'd answered him so directly.  
  
"But it still doesn't make sense, logically speaking." She looked back to him. "You know I can't join your troops."  
  
"There's more to the Army than marching with the boys, Sinclair. You ought to know that by now."  
  
"What exactly did you have in mind, Captain?" She bit off each word deliberately, curiousity and skepticism mingling in her voice.  
  
"We'll see what suits you once you've gone through some training." He leaned back into the upholstery again, apparently done with the topic. His eyes closed as he rested his head against the fabric, the lines of his face relaxing and giving him a less intimidating appearance.  
  
Nervously, the seventeen year old girl in the car with him brushed her bangs back from her forehead, biting her lower lip as she watched him. He really was beautiful, in a weather-worn, masculine sort of way. She loved the strong line of his jaw, the thick muscles of his neck, and the faint scent of fresh air and the forest that somehow clung to him. The man was twenty-four years older than she; over twice her age and as old as her father. And yet...  
  
His eyes opened, and he smiled a bit to find her watching him. Quickly, she averted her gaze, the slightest stain of a blush rising to her cheeks. She'd never been caught staring at a man before, perhaps because she so rarely found one worth admiring. To be caught now, by a man such as this, was humiliating.  
  
"Miss Sinclair," he began, and she braced herself for the sarcastic reprimand that would surely follow. "Do you play chess?"  
  
That caught her completely off-guard.. something that this Rourke character seemed to be quite good at, actually. "Yes, sir, I do," she managed. "My... father taught me when I was a child."  
  
"Wonderful," he said with a smile. "I haven't had a good challenge in quite some time."  
  
He opened his mouth to continue, but was interrupted by the shaking of the floor of their car as the train's engine roared to life. The door was slammed shut and bolted by some unseen attendant, and a hollow whistle echoed through the night. Instinctively, Helga's eyes darted back towards the engine, though she could see nothing from inside the passenger car. Another whistle sounded, and, with a faint shudder from the train, the outlines of trees outside began to move past the windows.  
  
"Good, we're moving," Rourke murmured. "It's about damned time." His expression brightened as he looked back to her. "So.. chess, Sinclair."  
  
"What about it, sir?"  
  
"I'd like to see how you are," he mused thoughtfully, sizing up the girl who sat facing him.  
  
She flexed a brow passively. "If you wish, Captain." In truth, Helga had no idea whether she would be able to keep pace with someone like Rourke. The majority of her chess experience had come from the games she'd played in the barracks at army bases to win cash from clueless GI's; it was rare for her to play against someone with any real talent. Her father was wonderful at the game, true, but, with all of his time on the job, she rarely saw him. Her last challenging match had been months ago; would she be able to play against Rourke without humiliating herself?  
  
He rose from his seat, his footing solid on the slightly shaky train, and crossed the car to a set of two benches. They were securely bolted to the floor, with a small wooden table bolted down between them. Opening a section of paneling above the table, Rourke removed a heavy-looking wooden chess board with a drawer in its side. He set it down on the table, removed a handful of pieces from the drawer, and began arranging them.  
  
Cautiously, Helga rose from her seat, and made her way to the table. She wasn't terribly familiar with trains, especially American ones, but she was relatively certain that they didn't generally come equipped with chess sets. But, then, they didn't generally allow private passenger cars on night trains, either, did they? Her eyes ran over the features of the man who sat sorting out pawns. Who *was* he?  
  
He held out two closed fists to her. Silently, she gestured towards his right hand. He opened it, handed her the white pawn it had contained, and continued arranging pieces. Gingerly, Helga sat down across from him, and placed her ivory colored pieces in order. It was an advantage, albeit a small one, to have drawn white; it meant that she would have the first turn, and would, therefore, have the potential to lead the attack, if she played her cards right. However, it also meant that she was going to have to show some aggression, which would be difficult to do with this man.  
  
Rourke set his queen in place as Helga finished up with her last rook, then watched her levelly over the board. Had she not known better, Helga would have sworn that his warm brown eyes could somehow read her pulse through her skin as he waited for her to make the first move.  
  
----------  
  
  
  
It took only four turns for it to become painfully obvious that she was no match for him. True, she was good, but he was far, far better. Her aggressive attempts at gambit strategy, which had worked so well on the boys back in Maryland, had no effect on Rourke whatsoever, save giving him a lovely collection of ivory pieces at the side of the board. She claimed a few of his pieces, including a rook that he'd been particularly reluctant to part with, but it was a lost cause. His foresight and cunning were unnerving and exhilarating at the same time, and, though she knew herself to be the prey, Helga couldn't help but love the hunt. When she finally tipped her king over in defeat, she felt no bitterness towards her conqueror, though a loss had always disturbed her greatly in the past.  
  
Her heart still pounding from the rush of the game, she shook his offered hand with an unusually warm smile. "Thank you, Captain."  
  
A knowing little smile appeared at the corners of his lips; he'd understood. "You're welcome, Sinclair. I enjoyed that." His eyes fell to his hand, which was completely obscuring hers from view. Relaxing his grip, he unfolded his palm and looked down at her neatly gloved hand.  
  
Helga pulled away slightly, but kept her hand gingerly on his. "What are you looking at?"  
  
"Do you always wear gloves?"  
  
She was, yet again, caught off-guard. Damn him. "Yes, sir." She moved to pull her hand away from him, but he caught her by the wrist in a flash of movement too quick to follow. Her eyes narrowed as she nervously asked, "Captain? What are you doing?"  
  
"I'm looking at your hand, Sinclair." While one hand held her in place, the thick fingers of the other moved to the wrist of the glove.  
  
"Please don't do that..." Blue eyes began to widen in fear.  
  
He gave no indication that he had heard her, instead removing the glove in one swift motion. Instinctively, Helga slammed her fist shut, but he was too strong for her. Prying her grip open, Rourke examined the hand in question with an almost scientific eye. She had long, slender fingers, oval nails kept neat and short, and surprisingly soft skin, and he noted that her hand could almost have been called beautiful-- were it not for the scar. A thick, white line that ran nearly the full vertical length of her palm, it gave her a strangely menacing look, completely shattering any appearances of gentle femininity that she might otherwise have possessed.  
  
"What happened?" he murmured, tracing the line with the tip of his index finger, his touch surprisingly light.  
  
"It was an accident with a throwing knife," she reluctantly answered. "I was eight years old."  
  
"Hmm." Rourke knew better than to question the exact details. "Is this why you wear those gloves of yours, Sinclair?"  
  
"Partially," she confessed, amazed at the sensation of his touch. No one had touched her hands in years; she'd made sure of that.  
  
"Why else?" He was relentless, this man...  
  
She jerked her hand away from him, uncomfortable both with the questioning and with the quickening of her heart. It was a very bad idea to let him this close to her...  
  
"I think we're done discussing this." She snatched her glove up from the table and quickly pulled it on, her eyes refusing to meet his.  
  
"Maybe later, then," he said, his voice as casual as if they were bored rich men discussing a golf tournament. "We're nearly to the fort, anyway." He re-opened the drawer in the base of the chess board, and began neatly placing the pieces back inside.  
  
Helga turned her eyes to the line of windows, which had gone relatively unnoticed during the game. Dark blurs that could only be trees flickered past, and a shadowy moon hung low in sky, but, otherwise, there was nothing. If the fort was nearby, she certainly didn't see it.  
  
"What's your greatest dream, Sinclair?" She looked back to see that he had finished with the chess set and had readjusted his position on the bench, his shoulders now pressed squarely into its back.  
  
"My.. greatest dream, sir?" Her nose wrinkled slightly as her upper lip drew back a bit, skepticism clearly written across her features. The question, which would have been overly touchy-feely from anyone else, suddenly seemed dangerous and weighted.  
  
"You know," Rourke said, with a faint wave of a hand, "your goal. What you hope to do with your life."  
  
Christ, was he serious? His expression was carefully passive, and she found it to be disconcertingly unreadable.  
  
"I suppose my dream, Captain, is to be powerful enough to not have to discuss my dreams with a superior officer."  
  
He rewarded her with a slow half-smile as his eyes studied the chess board between them. "That's touching, Sinclair. Really."  
  
The air hung heavy and silent for a moment. "What about you?" she asked, finally.  
  
"What about me, what?"  
  
"What's *your* greatest dream, Captain?" The question was dripping with sarcasm.  
  
His smile broadened slightly. "My greatest dream, Sinclair, is to be persuasive enough to not have to ask my questions twice when speaking to my pupil."  
  
A faint blush of embarassment rose unbidden to her cheeks. "Sir, I--"  
  
The screech of brakes being engaged interrupted her.  
  
"Sounds like we're here," Rourke commented, dismissing her simply by rising to his feet. He slid the chess board back into its hiding place, then crossed the car rather brusquely to retrieve Helga's bag. Outside, a few feeble lights shone from the station, and a few unintelligible shouts served to reassure that there were, indeed, attendants.  
  
The car door was flung open by a mustached man in a faded military jacket, who immediately stepped to the side in a salute. With a slow smirk, Rourke flung Helga's bag over his shoulder, and gently took her elbow. He escorted her to the door of the car, carefully helped her down, and made his own departure from the train. "At ease, Private," he murmured, passing the man in the jacket. The salute faded as the man relaxed a bit, though his posture remained unfalteringly perfect.  
  
Coming to stand next to her, Rourke surrendered the old duffel bag to the blonde he'd brought from Maryland, who stood looking passively through the station door. An easy smile crossed his lips as she comfortably shouldered the heavy bag, her blue eyes shifting to look at him from beneath thick lashes. "Thank you, Captain."  
  
Ignoring the man behind them for a moment, Rourke reflected silently that this was *exactly* the kind of girl they'd been looking for. Strong, beautiful, and intelligent, she would fit the bill perfectly. It was a shame that he couldn't tell her the real reason she was here.  
  
"Welcome to Fort Dix, Miss Sinclair." 


	2. Chapter II

"You have her, then?" The low voice, slightly raspy from age, chilled him even through the phone.  
  
"Yes, sir. We'll begin testing her this morning."  
  
"Excellent. And your initial analysis, Captain?"  
  
A long pause, and a shift of brown eyes. "Promising, sir."  
  
"For your sake, I hope you're right. It's a simple enough task, Lyle-- I'm growing tired of waiting on you."  
  
A faint click signaled that the older man was done with him, and Rourke grimly lowered the receiver. He should have killed him long ago.  
  
-----  
  
It wasn't that he had any kind of feelings for her. No, Rourke firmly reiterated to himself, she was just a pile of poker chips, an inanimate thing which could either make or break him. He had certainly found nothing charming about her naive attempts at brushing him off in the train, or in the way her lips had pursed as she'd studied the chess board. As he'd told himself a thousand times this morning, giving her away would be almost insultingly easy. But as he stood on a narrow metal balcony in a large training room, watching her feet fly over and over a jump rope that moved too quickly to be seen, he knew that it was a lie.  
  
"She's doing remarkably well, don't you think?" commented the Private beside him, gesturing to a clipboard with the girl's scores recorded in pencil.  
  
"We'll see how she finishes up," Rourke answered quietly, his eyes never leaving her. A faint line of sweat had formed along her breast bone, and it made the skin above her tank top gleam. "But, yes .. I'd say she's doing quite well, so far."  
  
"Well, you know how those Army brats are," the mustached man quipped lightly, jotting down a number as the blonde switched jumping styles.  
  
"Hmm," he answered, noncommitally. Rourke found it vaguely amusing that children of soldiers should be given such an insulting label these days. Things had certainly changed... The girl on the floor began to blur.  
  
----------  
  
"Lyle! Lyle, baby?"  
  
She wore a dress made out of thin blue calico, and her already greying hair was done up in a knot at the nape of her neck. Her cheeks were wet, but he hadn't understood quite why, at the time.  
  
"Aren't you gonna tell your Daddy good-bye, baby?"  
  
He'd rubbed the sleep from his eyes and padded his way to the doorway, one chubby little fist dragging his blanket behind him.  
  
"C'mere, Little Man." Powerful arms had lifted him up, and soft brown eyes had smiled from beneath bushy eyebrows. "I'm gonna go take care of a coupla Yanks, now, an' make this country free again... I'm fixin' to bring you back a real live Yankee's boot buckle when I come home for Christmas, too-- an' you see if I don't!" He'd been pressed up into the itchy grey wool of his father's uniform, and held for what had seemed an eternity, then gently given a gruff little kiss on the forehead and a smile. "You take care of your Mama, now, you hear me?"  
  
"Okay, now.. scoot back to bed, baby; get some rest." His mother's eyes had been wet, then, too, but why? Daddy would be home by Christmas... God, he'd been so young, so young...  
  
----------  
  
"Private, get me Trunkel."  
  
"Trunkel, sir? Yes, sir." The Private looked down at the girl. "Sinclair, take five."  
  
On the lower level of the training room, Helga lowered her rope and took a deep breath, the air stale but sweet as it filled her lungs. Her muscles ached beneath her skin, and she could feel a thin layer of sweat across her torso. Though she would have never admitted it, it felt wonderful to simply be still for a moment. She stretched her back, relishing the relief that the posture brought until her instincts kicked in. The hair on the back of her neck shifted, and she realized that she was still being watched.  
  
Narrowed blue eyes shot upwards, and, indeed, Captain Lyle Rourke's gaze appeared quite fixed on her, though strangely distant. Helga's upper lip curled back slightly, and she jogged off into the back hallway. Had she been asked why, she might have retorted that her muscles would have cramped had she remained still for too long, or that the water fountain in the dingy back hallway was far superior to the one in the training room itself, but the fact was that she simply couldn't abide by him staring at her like that. He stood on his balcony, scrutinizing her with a patriarchal air of condescention that she couldn't help but find unnerving. He'd scarcely said a word to her after they'd arrived the night before, stating simply that she was to report at 0-700 for testing. She assumed it was for placement of some type, but exactly what kind, or how well she was supposed to do, were complete mysteries to her. She'd arrived early to warm up, when the gym was still cold and dark with the twilight before dawn, and she had since been pushing her body to the limit under the watchful eyes of not only the same Private who'd greeted them at the station, but also of the man whose lingering scent had kept her awake nearly all night. The longer she thought of him, the deeper she felt a strange need to prove herself to him. He'd shown her up countless times on the train, in that subtle way of his, and Helga knew that she was far too proud to simply let it go. She ached to prove herself to him, even if it was only in such a petty thing as jumping rope. But with him watching her like that... She knew that he would almost assuredly catch even the slightest mistep, and the constant pressure was becoming exhausting. How would she ever prove herself if she found it unable to even do simple tasks under his gaze? She splashed her face with water at the small fountain in the hallway, and rinsed the taste of fear from her mouth. The water was only mildly cold, but it somehow helped bolster her spirits. She could do this, she could convince him that she was a worthy student-- if only he would stop staring!  
  
Though she had used only a small portion of her allotted five minutes, Helga wasted no time in jogging back to the training room. If she was to make a fool of herself, she could at least be on time for it... Surely he'd appreciate punctuality. "See what a good little girl I am?" she muttered under her breath as she entered, determined that her exhaustion not register on her face when he saw her.  
  
"Quite good, I hope," came a low response from behind her. "And as for little..."  
  
She turned around abruptly. He stood against the wall, directly inside the doorway, and Helga realized with humiliation that she must have uttered her sarcastic little number almost right beside him. She'd have to sharpen her instincts if she ever hoped to--  
  
"Trunkel?" Rourke asked, dismissing her almost immediately as he turned his gaze to the door at the front of the room. The Private from earlier had just stepped in, and was now accompanied by a young man with a slightly crooked nose and a shaven head. "Sinclair, this is Max Trunkel. He's my best student in intro level training. Trunkel, this is Major Sinclair's daughter, from Aberdeen." A faint smirk appeared at the corners of the Captain's lips. "But I believe you two have met before, haven't you?"  
  
The nineteen year old Trunkel's eyes narrowed at the sight of the sweaty girl, who still looked every bit as cocky as she had back in Maryland. "You're the bitch that took my paycheck," he snarled, advancing on her.  
  
"And you're the sore loser who couldn't defend himself," she retorted lowly, instinctively assuming a solid stance. How had Rourke known about this?  
  
"I've learned a thing or two since then." Trunkel's eyes flashed fire, but he glanced towards Rourke for further orders. It wouldn't do to just lunge for the girl, as tempting as that might be. After all, he could always take care of her later.  
  
Helga's gaze also shifted towards the Captain, whose lips were now twisted into a very amused smile. What did he mean, bringing this boy to her like this? Of all the people he could have chosen to greet her on this hellish day, why did it have to be Trunkel?  
  
She'd defeated him in a chess game at Aberdeen, back when she'd been short on cash, and, though they'd each placed a decent wager on the game, he'd refused to pay her when she'd won. Apparently, the fool hadn't been able to believe that he'd lost a game of logic to a girl. She hadn't fought him for the money, really; it had been a matter of principal. After all, if the other GI's on the base saw that she hadn't enforced the payment of this wager, they'd feel free to walk all over her whenever they saw fit, and Helga simply couldn't allow that. It hadn't been anything personal; just a matter of business. Of course, thinking back, she could still feel the cartiledge in his nose snapping, the slickness of his blood on her gloves, and the weight of his money in her pocket... But how had Rourke known? And what was his purpose behind bringing him here?  
  
"Trunkel, it's come to my attention that you have some unfinished business with Miss Sinclair here," Rourke murmured, his eyes locked on the boy's.  
  
"Yes sir," came the even reply.  
  
"Why don't you go on ahead now and finish that up, son." It wasn't a question.  
  
Max Trunkel's eyes darted from Rourke to Helga and back again. "Sir?"  
  
"Go ahead," Rourke said, his voice perfectly relaxed. "I don't want any prolonged conflict on this base, Trunkel, and I want to see this one cleared up right now. It's all right-- go ahead."  
  
For a moment, Max and Helga's eyes locked, and a silent messege was exchanged. Surely the older man couldn't be serious about this... A quick glance back to Rourke assured them both that he was, indeed, and, uncomfortable in the knowledge that this was an encouraged, if not downright enforced, fight, they squared off.  
  
----------  
  
She hadn't meant to hurt him, really. But something about performing under Rourke's gaze, inhaling the scent of Trunkel's sweat as he'd swung at her, and the way that that damned Private smirked in the background... It had combined to trigger something in her that was almost lethal. Her fighting had been sloppy, yes--she knew that-- but it had also been very, very effective.  
  
Brushing her sweaty bangs back from her forehead, Helga peered down at Max Trunkel, whose left eye was already beginning to darken and swell. He was undoubtedly unconscious, and a vague wave of guilt washed over the girl who now watched him. Rourke had ordered him to fight her; he hadn't deserved this. The boy was only nineteen, after all, and it was unfair to expect him to be able to beat her after only a few months of training.  
  
"He had it coming," Rourke reassured her, his voice low and very, very close to her.  
  
Helga's heartbeat quickened slightly as she wondered why she hadn't noticed him approaching her, and dark blue eyes glanced up at him. "Sir?"  
  
"Jenkins, have Trunkel attended to," Rourke ordered, looking up at the Private near the door.  
  
The younger man's eyes seemed too large for his face as he forcibly ripped his gaze from Helga and the damage she'd done. "Yes sir," he choked out, and darted quickly out of the room.  
  
"I heard your friend Trunkel chatting with some of my other students," Rourke explained, when it was obvious that the Private was out of earshot. "Something about you giving him hell at Aberdeen..." The blush that rose to Helga's cheeks was proof enough of her guilt. "If you're going to be training here, Miss Sinclair," he added, with an almost playful smile, "I can't have my boys plotting to take you out."  
  
"Take.. me out, sir?" His smile had made his meaning vague, and Helga wondered how much of the other implications had been intentional. Knowing Rourke...  
  
"That said," he continued, "I believe we can safely skip you past the basic training section of my courses." He gestured towards a clipboard in his massive left hand, and his smile broadened. "Your scores, and your performance with Trunkel here" --and he kicked the unconscious boy with the toe of his boot-- "are more than enough to convince me to skip you. That is, if you have no objections...?"  
  
"Skip me.. to what, sir?"  
  
"To personal training with me, Sinclair... as we discussed."  
  
So there were no other steps to go through first. Helga hadn't imagined that she would get to work one-on-one with him so quickly; he'd seemed so utterly unimpressed by her all morning. She had been trained for most of her life, but never in an American or official military style, and she had assumed that Rourke would give her at least a quick introduction to the style he expected her to use. "I-- You ... really think I'm ready for that?" she stammered, looking into eyes that seemed suddenly very, very gentle.  
  
"Of course I do," Rourke said, with a friendly smile. He was visibly far more relaxed than he had been the evening before. "But, hey.. Tell you what. You think about it, and let me know what you decide sometime this evening. You want some plain old-fashioned training, fine, you got it. I'd like to get to work with you as soon as you think you're ready, though, so let's cut the nonsense if we can. Swing by my office with your decision any time this evening, Sinclair, and we'll start you up tomorrow in whatever direction you want to go. Fair enough?"  
  
Before she could respond, Private Jenkins came hustling back in with a pair of medics. "--no, no.. not serious," he was saying, "just a black eye and the like." Helga quickly stepped away from Trunkel's outstretched form, a glare from a medic sparking a guilty blush. She looked down at Trunkel, aware once again of his presence, and, after a brief pause, turned back to Rourke.  
  
She looked just in time to see the shoulders of his olive green jacket disappear out the door. The clipboard he'd been carrying was nowhere in sight.  
  
----------  
  
Leaning back in his chair, Rourke shifted his feet on his desk, and inhaled deeply from his cigar. She was perfect, absolutely perfect. With the cigar between his teeth, he flipped through the pages on his clipboard yet again, smiling as he read. When he'd heard Trunkel talking with the other transfers about the "spitfire at Aberdeen," he'd been hopeful, yes... But nothing could have prepared him for the perfection that was Helga. He'd been taken by her beauty when he'd met her after the lecture, by her intelligence and charms on the train ride, and now by her physical strength and agility. If he polished her up a bit, Rourke was certain that the old man would have no objections. He was eager to get his share of the deal, and Rourke was more than ready to get out from under his thumb. The girl seemed anxious for adventure, too, so really, it would work out well for all of them. With a grin, he took another drag from the cigar, which had been a treat to himself for having found such a wonderful girl. She was more than worth the hassle of scheduling a lecture and visiting Aberdeen; she was his ticket to salvation, the little fool, and he loved her for it. Now, if he could just manage to keep his hands off of her until he turned her over...  
  
----------  
  
The building was small, with perhaps only one or two rooms, and the metal exterior had been painted a very drab grey. It was in no way remarkable, and yet Helga's heart pounded as she approached it. "Lyle T. Rourke" had been stenciled on the door in white paint that gleamed as only very new paint can, and the girl couldn't help but smile as she read it. It was a good, solid name, and she wondered half-heartedly what the "T." stood for. Hesitantly, she raised a fist, and then knocked heartily enough to disguise her fear.  
  
The door opened a moment later, and the Captain stood there in just a beige undershirt and Army green trousers, a half-burned cigar in his left hand. The sweet smell of it mingled with his cologne-- or was it aftershave?-- to create a mixture that was rugged and absolutely intoxicating, and for a moment she was lost in the lines of his exposed biceps, his broad, strong chest, and, God, that scent...  
  
"Miss Sinclair," he greeted her, his smile still as amicable as it had been that morning. "Good to see you." He opened the door further, stepping aside to offer her a clear path. "Come in."  
  
She stepped inside, surprised by the warmth of the office in relation to the building's hostile exterior. It was Spartan, and impeccably clean, but a few small personal touches gave it a welcoming feel. A small, ragtag collection of worn books, many of them Hawthorne and Scott, filled a wooden shelf on one wall, a painting of a stretch of scrub-filled, red Texas earth keeping watch above it, and a small, obviously well-loved old photograph of a man in Confederate uniform sat among a pile of papers on the desk.  
  
"That's my father," Rourke explained, catching her looking at it as he closed the door. "He was killed at Spotsylvania, back in '64. My aunt kept watch of that photograph for me while I was touring." His gaze lingered sadly on the gruff man in the photo.  
  
It seemed strange to Helga to think of Rourke having had parents, though she wasn't entirely sure why. It made him suddenly almost too human, as if men of his caliber should somehow be immune to human weaknesses such as families. "I'm sorry for your loss," she murmured, lowering her eyes.  
  
"Don't be," he said easily, as he moved behind the desk, exhaling a bit of cigar smoke. "Can I get you anything, Sinclair? Scotch, maybe?" His eyes sparkled playfully.  
  
"No, thank you," she said, looking back up at him with a small smile.  
  
"I hope you'll forgive my state of undress, ma'am," he apologized, gesturing towards his undershirt. "I'd almost given up on your coming by, and decided to make myself a little more comfortable."  
  
"It's fine," she assured him, her smile broadening. "I'm sorry if I've kept you waiting." There was something about this man that she just couldn't help but like... Perhaps it was the way that "ma'am" had sounded like a respectful compliment when he'd said it, his Texas accent giving him an air of Southern grace that she found quite charming. Or perhaps she was just flattered that, after his almost purposeful avoidance of her last night, he should be so open with her now.  
  
"Have a seat," he offered, gesturing to a comfortable-looking leather chair across from his own as he seated himself behind his desk, taking another drag off his cigar.  
  
"Now," he continued, when she appeared to be settled, "What do you think of Fort Dix, having been here almost a day now?"  
  
"It's.. quite nice," she lied, cautiously, "though I haven't seen too much of it yet."  
  
"And your room is to your liking?"  
  
"Very much so," she agreed, nodding. "I hadn't expected anything nearly so comfortable."  
  
"Well, I wouldn't have brought you all the way down here just to leave you in the barracks with the boys, Miss Sinclair," he smiled. If he was lucky, it would be some time yet before the girl figured out how vastly superior her room was to what she should have been given. "To get down to business, though... I trust you have an answer for me?"  
  
She nodded, thinking that it was strange of him to have not settled the matter that morning. "I'd be honored to skip the basic training, sir, if you believe me to be qualified."  
  
"Excellent," he said, his smile broadening even more. "I'm sorry I had to ask you to come out here this evening; it may well seem.. superfluous.. to you."  
  
Her eyes narrowed slightly. How had he known? Perhaps she was more readable than she had thought.  
  
"But there's reason to my madness, Sinclair. If we're going to be training individually, I wanted the opportunity to talk with you a little first... preferably without a parcel of medics staring us down."  
  
She relaxed slightly, even as his words triggered a warning light. At least he had a reason.  
  
Rourke extinguished the remains of his cigar in a small glass ashtray, and leaned across the desk slightly to look at his new pupil, leaning heavily on his elbows. "So I'm training you in firearms and unarmed combat, am I?"  
  
"Yes sir," she murmured, uncomfortable at his proximity to her.  
  
"Well, the first step in unarmed combat, Sinclair, is to become comfortable with a person being close to you."  
  
She frowned at that, which only egged him on further.  
  
"If you're going to be able to fight someone, you need to be at ease no matter how close you are to him. I can tell I make you uncomfortable," he mused, giving her a half-smile. "You were uncomfortable on the train, which is understandable, but you still seem nervous now... Why is that?"  
  
"I.. I'm just not used to being right next to someone, sir," she managed, involuntarily pulling away a bit more. His eyes were locked onto hers, and suddenly her hand was pressed beneath his.  
  
"Don't pull away from me," he ordered firmly, never breaking eye contact. The pull of his gaze woud have kept her in place, even had the weight of his hand failed. "The second step," he explained quietly, "is to never let it show when you *are* uncomfortable. An opponent will latch onto any weakness that you show and exploit it, Helga."  
  
He could feel her pulse quicken in her wrist at the mention of her first name. He knew that it was wrong to allow himself this bit of fun, but he'd be damned if he was strong enough to do without it. The girl was making an obvious effort to not shy away from him, and as he stared her down, Rourke noted yet again that her eyes were a stunning blue. They reminded him vaguely of the way the sky had looked on a crisp fall day on the prairie, when he'd ridden a great grey horse with his Colt .45 at his hip, or of the Bay back at Aberdeen where he'd found her. Her German blood was strong in her, from her clear, light skin to the golden hair that she wore plaited at her neck, and Rourke suddenly understood men's attraction to exotic women.  
  
He kept her locked there for no less than two minutes, until she had managed to force away all visible signs of her discomfort. Had he had any doubts about her abilities before, they were gone now. She was obviously a quick learner with a solid grip on her emotions, which was just the final bit of icing on the cake.  
  
"Very good," he praised, releasing her hand but not her eyes. He'd had more to say to her, but it was clear now that this wasn't the time. "Meet me in the main training room tomorrow at 1800-hours. Agreed?"  
  
"Yes sir," she murmured, unable to look away.  
  
"Well, then, I'll see you tomorrow," Rourke said calmly, standing and thus freeing her from his eyes. "Lovely to see you, Miss Sinclair... Come by if you need anything."  
  
"Thank you," she answered, rising quickly to her feet. She was blushing furiously now, and was desperate to regain some semblance of composure. She had been so collected when she'd first met this man, and it seemed as if that was rapidly fading. "I'll.. see you tomorrow, sir."  
  
"Indeed," he smiled, moving to open the door for her. "Good night."  
  
"Good night," she repeated, keeping her gaze averted as she left the building. He watched her from the window until she'd vanished from sight.  
  
----------  
  
"She's the one, sir."  
  
"You're sure, this time?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Well, then, get to work, son! Time is money, you know."  
  
"I know that... Training begins tomorrow, Mr. Whitmore. I won't let you down." 


End file.
